Books and Trees
by thedemonwithatypewriter
Summary: There was a tree, down an obscure pathway, where an angel liked to reside.


There was a tree, down an obscure pathway, where an angel liked to reside.

It was the sort of tree filled with feelings. The sort of tree that had branches that dipped down to the ground, where filtered sunlight made it's way through the branches and flickered like thousands of old films. You could almost hear the children's laughter climbing through the branches, the couple's silently holding hands, or the philosophical musings made, with nobody around to hear but the tree.

And it remembered. It remembered all those deep discussions, or those quiet whispers, or the initials carved into it's trunk. All those memories, just waiting to be found. Absorbed into those green leaves, never to be seen again.

Perhaps that was what had attracted Aziraphale in the first place. All those forgotten moments, faded with time, old and crackling like his books. He felt the nostalgia in the air, the feeling of love and happiness, and was somehow, inexplicably, drawn to that strange back alley.

He could stay there for hours, without a care in the world. He would sit under the weeping branches, book in hand, lost in the words and surrounded by a kaleidoscope of swirling leaves and golden sunlight. The pages would crackle in his hands and the smell of old pages mingled with the scent of the leaves in the air, and peace would overflow within him. It was just him, the tree, and the book. Nothing else.

It was then when he didn't feel like an angel. He felt so human, like instead of going back and reporting to Heaven and having all that responsibility, that he could just go home to Crowley and go and get drunk without any worries.

And at the same time, it was nice not having to hide. Sometimes, when the sun was starting to fade and the sound of night slowly seeped into the air, he would gently open his wings, letting them wrap around the tree trunk and spill feathers onto the grass.

It was just the tree, the book, and him, and it was _perfect._

Crowley wasn't sure when he had found the tree. Maybe it was when he was looking for his angel one day, when he was feeling lonely and wondering where he was, that he found it. When he wandered down that rickety old path, shoes clicking almost too loudly down the path.

And he had found it. Standing there, tall and proud, tilting down, reaching for him.

It almost reminded him of those old days, when he was Crawly, and not Crowley. When had tempted, and cheated, and slithered around, smiting about apples and sin. But this tree had no ripe red apples and no people around at all.

When he had made his way through the stream of branches and stepped inside, he could practically _taste_ the memories.

And Hell forbid, he felt _emotions._ He felt the memories.

He felt his façade melting away. Under the filtered sunlight and green leaves, he didn't have to keep up the pretense that he was evil, that he couldn't feel love and never would. He was just a man, who had wandered down an alley and had found a tree.

Heck, he even removed his sunglasses. And there were no stares, no judging whispers or strange looks. Just the tree, and him.

Sometimes, he listened to music. Queen, of course, because, somehow, he'd become fond of it. He'd hum along to the tune and stroll around, sidestepping across the stray roots. And, when he was absolutely sure nobody was listening, he would sing along. Because there was no one there to judge.

Just the tree, the music, and him, and it was _perfect._

They both weren't sure exactly when it happened. But it did.

Perhaps it was fate. And then again, perhaps it wasn't.

The angel had flipped the closed sign and grabbed an armful of books. He made his way over, down the path, clumsily hauling over the pile of faded covers and making his way towards the tree.

The demon had slid into the car, the sleek Bentley making it's way across the bumpy road, making it's way toward the tree.

They hadn't even noticed each other both walking up the path, too preoccupied with other things to notice the other. They didn't notice until they arrived at the tree.

It's sprawling leaves and soft sunlight had become so familiar to both of them. It was practically a tradition now, for one of them to sit under the shade of the branches, immersed in music or stories.

It was the angel who noticed first. He turned, seeing the demon, with a surprised look. Crowley looked back, with a look that whispered: _"_ _You come here too?"_

Of course he did. Hadn't he thought that, when he saw the realm of green and golden flickers? He'd thought, _this is a place my angel would like._

And the angel was no less surprised. Because he had thought it too. _This is a place I should show Crowley._

They didn't even say anything. They didn't need to. The patch of ground where they both had once sat was almost illuminated, with an invisible spotlight they both could see.

So they sat. Together.

And the angel blushed when the demon rested his head on his tartan clad shoulder. He'd smiled when he heard him humming, as his eyes the colour of the sunlight around them flicked briefly across the words on the page.

And the demon found himself buried in the words on that crumpled page, the sound of Freddie Mercury's smooth voice echoing through the air as he read. He smirked at his rosy cheeks, at those blue eyes which he'd never seen so at peace before.

And they sat together, tasting the grass and the melting sunlight, engulfed in the presence of each other and the silence of being completely and utterly alone with each other.

They both smiled as they looked into each other's eyes, the sunlight and the sky, melting into each other and looking like the world outside. And without words, they both whispered through the sea of leaves.

 _This is nice_ , their eyes said.

And nobody outside could see them. Not a soul saw that beneath those leaves, sat an angel and a demon, under the gentle sunlight without a care in the world. Nobody could see the utter happiness, the complete peace inside both of them, that seemed to lift the branches up by sheer force of will.

Nobody saw the unspoken agreement between them, that said, _we should do this more often._

And that was what was so perfect. There was no one else. It was just the angel, the demon, and the tree, and it was _perfect._

There was a tree, down an obscure pathway, where an angel _and_ a demon liked to reside.


End file.
